


the glitzy hive

by mortarsmayfall



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, Thor (Movies)
Genre: Cunning Linguist, M/M, Masturbation, Oral Sex, Overstimulation, Power Bottoming, Power Play, Trans Character, Trans Loki (Marvel), Trans Male Character, Vaginal Fingering, there's piv sex if you're not into that sort of thing in trans fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-04
Updated: 2018-03-04
Packaged: 2019-03-26 16:28:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,137
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13861644
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mortarsmayfall/pseuds/mortarsmayfall
Summary: Here’s what Loki learns when the Grandmaster says "keeping you" – what he doesn't say isas a consort.Loki knows the kind of game rulers like the Grandmaster play, and there was always room for two.So he plays.





	the glitzy hive

Loki’s introduction to Sakaar involves a sour-looking drunk woman in white face paint hauling him by the ankle into a tacky throne room. 

"Ow," Loki says, mainly to the floor. 

"This one tried to stab me when I was bagging him," the drunk woman says, completely ignoring him. "Could be a decent fighter. Five million units."

Five million units? For his _life?_ Loki was worth _far_ more than five million units. 

"You’ve got to be joking if you think we'll be paying five million units for a...sodden rat," says a second voice, more severe than the first.

 _"Topaz,"_ a third voice interjects. It’s deeper than the first two, but lighter, like its owner was interrupted from telling a good joke. "She could be onto something. 142 hasn't brought me a dud yet."

"Yet," Topaz agrees, with heavy emphasis. 

"Oh, for heavens' sake. Transfer the units." 

A sigh, and then a clack of shoes as Topaz marches away to do just that. It occurs to Loki that he is still very much face down on the floor.

"And you – yeah, you, sweetheart, on the floor – get up, on your knees, just like that. Perfect. Let me take a look at you." 

The drunk – 142 – steps aside, a hand on her hip, clearly uninterested in the owner of the third voice's inspection. Looking up, Loki is met with an eyeful of shimmering fabric and blue makeup. 

"Oh, this is a pretty one," Blue Makeup coos. Absolutely everything about him gleams, right down to his eyes – deep hazel and a little predatory. Reaching out, he catches Loki by the chin, swiveling his head this way and that to get a closer look. "And you found this one in a _junkyard?_ Really?"

"Really," 142 echoes. Loki doesn't need to see her face to know she's smug.

Tired of being referred to as the objective _this one,_ Loki snaps, "I have a _name,_ you know."

"Oh, it speaks! And what would that be?"

Loki regards Blue Makeup with disdain, eyes narrowed. "Loki," he sniffs. 

"Loki!" His captor exclaims, shooting a hand out to catch Loki’s in a wrenching handshake. "So, _so_ nice to meet you, Loki, darling. I’m – well, I’m sure you must already know, but – you can call me _Grandmaster._ "

"Grandmaster," Loki repeats, slow, in disbelief. Just what kind of self-important old crow was this man?

"Don’t wear it out," the Grandmaster says, patting Loki’s cheek affectionately. His face burns, infuriated and embarrassed. 

He turns to the woman named 142, fingers steepled together, eyes flickering back over to Loki every now and then. "It’d almost be a shame to throw this one in the Contest, he's just so _pretty,_ " the Grandmaster says, more to himself than to her. He spends a good minute hemming and hawing over this, fingers on his chin. 

Turning back to Loki, the Grandmaster affixes him with a peculiar gaze. "Mmh, nah, I’ve decided – I’m keeping you."

Loki blinks, unsure of what to say.

'"Thank you, Grandmaster,'" he leads, one hand out, rolling his wrist in a motion as if to say "go on with it, then." Loki drops his eyes to the floor and repeats after him, the picture of deference. 

"You’re _so_ welcome, Loki," the Grandmaster beams, catching Loki by the chin once again to look him in the eyes. The Grandmaster’s eyes gleam like hard little chips of amber. "Goodness, I’ll have so much fun with you."

–

Here’s what Loki learns when the Grandmaster says "keeping you" – what he doesn't say is _as a consort._ Loki knows the kind of game rulers like the Grandmaster play, and there was always room for two. 

So he plays. 

Prisoners, Loki later learns, are usually outfitted with "obedience disks" – a euphemism for a nasty little device that could simulate a painful shockwave response right down the subject's spine. It’s what 142 used to subdue Loki out on the junk heaps. To Loki’s own surprise, the Grandmaster ordered it removed as soon as 142 left them alone.

"It’s not as if our friend here is gonna run off," the Grandmaster had laughed. 

And he was right. Where would Loki run off _to?_ The smartest option was to stay and wait it out, get in the Grandmaster's good graces and, more importantly, stay in them. Which meant making sure the Grandmaster didn't tire of him.

So Loki would play the long game. 

–

"Dance with me," the Grandmaster says.

"Pardon?"

The eye roll Loki receives is legendary. Sometime during the party, the Grandmaster had slipped away from his keyboard, slithered right up to Loki and now leers down at his position on a couch, arm extended. Loki notes that his nails are polished to match his makeup. 

"Come on, I know you heard me. What are you afraid of?"

Plenty, Loki does not say. The Grandmaster is beautiful in a cruel way, like the sculptures of old Roman emperors he'd seen on Midgard: strong nose, pretty lips twisted in a grin just a little too mean-spirited to be friendly. A magic user, too, but the aura his power gave off was so _different_ – heady and cloyingly sweet. Whatever he was, he didn't need the melt-stick to cow his subjects. 

He takes the Grandmaster's hand. 

His touch is almost feverish, Loki notices. They start into a back-and-forth sway, Loki’s hand balanced delicately on the Grandmaster's, nothing too fancy. The other hand at the small of Loki’s back tugs him closer, pressing the two of them chest-to-chest. 

"Who are we leaving room for, here?" the Grandmaster smiles, and damn Loki’s heart for juddering just slightly in his chest. 

He lets the Grandmaster guide him, voice humming low in Loki’s ear along to the music. The hand on Loki’s lower back feels hot as a brand. They dance for a few songs straight; the Grandmaster's hand drifts lower. Pulse thundering in his ears, Loki bites the inside of his cheek. 

He _would_ win this. Even if it meant playing dirty. 

"Grandmaster," Loki murmurs, and maybe it's a little more breathy than necessary. 

"Hmm."

They’re still dancing. It would be charitable to say the Grandmaster's hand was anywhere near Loki’s back, at this point. 

Loki leans in, far enough he knows his breath ghosts hot across the Grandmaster's ear as he speaks. "I’m awfully worn out, I’m afraid. I believe it's time for me to turn in for the night."

A beat. Then, "Come with me?"

Loki pulls back, smiles at the Grandmaster. His mask has cracked, just the tiniest bit – the dazzling, sharp grin isn't so convincing this time. It’s replaced with a look Loki can only call hunger.

"Maybe some other night," Loki says, kissing the Grandmaster on the cheek, infuriatingly coy. 

He leaves him cold for the rest of the evening. 

–

Loki ignores the Grandmaster two more days in a row. 

Well, not quite. 

He drinks (not too much), gets comfortable (not too comfortable), forms friendships (finds exploits). He tells overblown stories of falling off the bifrost (twice!), of stealing the Tesseract (each time is different, a new clever lie told by Loki to gain it), of nearly bringing Midgard to its knees before him (he conveniently leaves out Thanos). The Grandmaster's courtesans love it. 

And, every time Loki glances out of the corner of his eye, he sees the Grandmaster. Always looking at him. Always with that strange smile on his face, eyes hardened into cold gems. Fingers curled around his chin, licking his lips just slightly, he just – watches. Waits. 

It turns Loki on _far_ more than it reasonably should. 

–

That second night, Loki retires to his chambers early and tries not to think too hard about what he's about to do. He strips without a word, wraps himself in one of the shamefully thin robes (blue, like his new armor) he couldn't bring himself to wear outside his room.

Loki thinks of the Grandmaster's cold eyes, his clever fingers. He curses himself for growing wet. 

"Loki, you old fool," he mutters, but he slips a hand between his legs anyway. 

The Grandmaster would take him slow, on his back, Loki thinks, and settles down into his bed, knees apart. He works his fingers into himself easily, catches his thumb across his clit. Maybe with his hands cuffed, or – no, the Grandmaster's hands around his wrists, restraining him. 

"You just need to – relax," the Grandmaster would say, oddly calm, sinking into him leisurely. "Take it easy, y'know?"

Loki thrusts hard into himself. His toes curl on the bed. _"Yes,"_ he hisses; vaguely he realizes he's speaking out loud. 

"That’s right, just like that. Can you take more?"

This fantasy is...shameful, but more importantly it's ridiculously hot. Loki was already cracking anyway, rutting on two fingers scissoring himself hard, thumb rubbing his clit so relentlessly he saw stars. The Grandmaster would start out slow but he would _wreck_ him, fuck him so hard he couldn't stand up the next day – Loki could see it in his eyes. 

And he _wanted_ it, damn the stars. 

Loki fumbles at his chest and has to shove the robe (blue, like the Grandmaster's makeup) aside to get his fingers around a nipple. He thinks of the Grandmaster's teeth and tongue on it, eyes boring into Loki’s. 

"What are you?" the Grandmaster asks him. Loki shudders. He can feel the crest coming; his knees tense up in anticipation. 

_"Yours,"_ he sighs, and clenches down on his fingers. Orgasm hits him like a gut-punch and Loki clamps his knees together, riding it out. "Yours, Grandmaster."

Loki lays there on his back for what feels like forever afterwards. He doesn't even bother to extract his fingers, still pulsating around them through the little aftershocks. 

He thinks of Odin, then thinks of the Grandmaster. Two photo-negatives. He probably would have to work through whatever this was turning out to be.

"Oh, Norns," Loki tells the ceiling. 

–

The next day, during another party, everything shatters. 

The Grandmaster beckons Loki over and before he can think of a reason not to come, he’s being half-dragged out of the room.

"I’ve been watching you, y'know, for three days," the Grandmaster says, crowding Loki closer to the garishly (red and white?) painted wall. Loki glances around; conveniently, the Grandmaster's guards and groupies have made themselves scarce. "Making yourself, ah, _comfortable_."

"I’m thrilled to learn your eyes aren't just for show," Loki deadpans. "Unlike much of the rest of you."

At this, the Grandmaster's jaw drops, and he lets out a harsh, startled laugh, the sound of a champagne glass shattering on the floor. "Ah, ah, you're a _joker,_ huh." His thumb is skimming the thin flesh of Loki’s wrist, over his pulse point. The Grandmaster leans in, so close their lips brush as he speaks. 

"Why don't you come to bed with me tonight, huh, beautiful?" He punctuates his proposition with a chaste kiss to Loki’s top lip.

Loki has to hand it to the Grandmaster: this is a planet of sycophants because he is the _ultimate_ sycophant. The old goat could flatter a fish onto a hook. But Loki has _goals,_ and intends to fulfill them, so –

"And if I said no?"

The Grandmaster releases Loki, hands held up in mock surrender. Interestingly enough, he doesn't step back: they remain chest-to-chest. "Then you say no. It's no party unless, er, everyone involved wants to be there."

Loki studies the Grandmaster's face; did he know? Were the chambers bugged? Did he see Loki come with his name on his lips?

He couldn't risk looking desperate. 

"Then I’ll have to pass up the offer," Loki says, finally. "But don't mistake it as my disinterest."

"Of course, of course," the Grandmaster says, and he's off of Loki just like that, fingers loosely steepled together in that peculiar way, body just barely swaying to and fro in a little not-quite-drunk dance. "But," he says, and his voice drops low for a second, the faintest hint of rasp in it – "I expect you'll come one of these nights." 

Loki stares at him. The double entendre is palpable; the Grandmaster's eyes are frozen into hard little chips of dark amber. And just like that they turn bright and liquid again, like the Grandmaster's just told some hilarious joke, and he winks strangely (more like a not-quite synchronized blink), and wobbles back down the hall. 

Loki follows the Grandmaster with his eyes till the strange old being turns a corner and drifts completely out of sight. 

Norns. 

–

The Grandmaster doesn't bother him again until two days pass and they're at a party and everyone other than Loki is _trashed,_ lying around him in a pile of arms and legs. 

Loki is dressed differently, this time: he forgoes his armor for the blue robe, and...not much else. A sizeable cut of his bare abdomen shows, and the material of the garment does little more than downgrade a statement to a heavy implication. He tries not to acknowledge his own hope that the Grandmaster sees; he’s nowhere to be found. 

The conversation died a long time ago and the strobing lights have officially become migraine-inducing to watch so Loki stares into his disgustingly sweet, syrupy drink and tries not to look at the reflection of the lights in the liquid.

"Oh, you again," says someone, out of _fucking_ nowhere – and suddenly there's a hand on his shoulder and Loki nearly leaps out of his seat. He feels the crackle of magic in his fingers, the implication of a dagger in his hand, and he rears back –

And almost stabs the Grandmaster. 

"Norns –"

The Grandmaster's smile is a cut in the low light, teeth flashing white and just on the wrong side of too-sharp. The wipe of blue on his chin glimmers. 

"You were gonna stab me," he says, entirely too pleased. 

"Because you _ambushed_ me," Loki shoots back. His back is still ramrod-straight, standing with his shins pressed hard against the gaudy couch he'd been sitting on. The Grandmaster had always been a tall man, taller than Loki, but he seems to tower over him now. His hand is still on Loki’s shoulder, lacquered nails drumming a lazy pattern into the end of the collarbone, like he's considering something. 

"I like someone who, who can defend themselves. It’s very sexy," the Grandmaster observes. Loki presses his mouth into a hard line, challenging the Grandmaster's laughing, liquid stare. "Ah, don't get yourself so worked up, sweetheart, I’m not gonna bite you. Yet."

That last word hangs in the air, uttered with a curled lip. A joke. Loki considers the Grandmaster, with his bright eyes and his bright teeth, and makes his move. 

_Finally._

Loki closes one hand around the column of the Grandmaster's throat, thumb pressing delicately against his windpipe. 

"You have no idea what I’m capable of," says Loki. 

It’s a bold-faced lie. He knows how old the Grandmaster is (old as the Big Bang, his courtesans whispered), how powerful he is. Truthfully, the Grandmaster could crush Loki like a roach if he desired. 

But they didn't call him Liesmith for nothing. 

Unperturbed, the Grandmaster tilts his head back, allows Loki to tighten his grip. 

"No, but, mm, I’d love to find out." 

Submission was...not expected, and Loki feels the back of his neck heat up. The room is still dark, still glimmers with the flash of party lights, but the courtesans pay the two of them no mind, bodies crashing together in a mockery of dance around them. In that moment it felt like just the two of them, like the room closed in, like there was a shortage of air. 

The Grandmaster's tongue flickers out to wet his lips, to ask, "Are you afraid of me, Loki?"

"No," Loki says, unsure of whether it's a lie, and kisses the Grandmaster, open-mouthed. 

The music pounds loud enough to feel as though it shakes all the marrow in Loki’s bones. He crowds as close as the couch wedged between them will allow, braces one foot against the cushions for leverage. Runs his tongue along the Grandmaster's lower lip and tastes the paint smudged across it. 

The Grandmaster makes a funny sound in his throat, somewhere between a laugh and a snarl, and kisses back, the hand on Loki’s shoulder migrating to his bare collarbone, his jaw, the nape of his neck. He gets a fistful of hair and tugs Loki back, gasping, the both of them breathing each other's hot air. 

"Come with me," the Grandmaster says, and this time it's an order.

So Loki obeys. 

–

The Grandmaster runs hot all over, just like his burning hands. 

This doesn't come as much of a surprise to Loki, who always ran cold, a fact often commented upon by even those who knew nothing of him, of his heritage. Even more so because the Grandmaster's magic was so potent Loki could practically taste it on the first meeting, weighing hot and sweet on the flat of his tongue. The Grandmaster is warm, impossibly warm, like he'd swallowed a supernova, like he had a sun inside of him, and his touch scorches Loki’s wrist like a brand. 

The hairs on the back of Loki’s neck prickle, and he feels his face burn with a twisted delight – and a lingering shame – to see the other courtesans stare, eyes flicking from his face to the Grandmaster's hand cuffed round his wrist. 

They move quickly, gliding through throngs of flatterers, down tackier and tackier hallways till the revelers thin out and eventually trickle away completely like a passing shower, till the Grandmaster stops short and switches focus, backing Loki into a wall. The Grandmaster's touch feels even hotter through the thin robe. 

"My brother, the Collector, you've heard of him?" the Grandmaster inquires, pressing closer, warmth surging down Loki’s front from the contact. 

"You could, ah, you could say so," Loki gasps. 

"My brother – my brother collects, er, _things,_ you see. People, objects. Keeps them in glass cases. Tacky, if you ask me." His hand slides under the front of Loki’s robe, splays across cool, naked skin. "We both entertain ourselves differently, that way. He collects things, I collect _moments._ Feelings."

The pad of his thumb skims a nipple, and Loki sucks in a breath, hard. He wonders again if the Grandmaster saw – that night. The Grandmaster smiles like the cat that got the canary. 

"Like that face just now – gorgeous. Could I get you to do that again? I could just bottle that up and sell it."

The Grandmaster's eyes are hard, gleaming shards of glass once more, searching him, looking for an opening. Loki swallows and winces, just slightly, at the audible click of his throat. 

The Grandmaster's smile sharpens.

"Ask me nicely," Loki says, pushing his luck. 

–

As it turns out, _asking nicely_ is precisely what the Grandmaster does far too well. 

It goes like this: the Grandmaster steers Loki into his chambers, strokes a thumb over Loki’s chin, and says " _would you please_ get on your knees for me, lovely," and Loki does. 

He does, and he's ashamed of how quickly he does. The Grandmaster says "please" and then calls him _"lovely"_ and it's like the joints in Loki’s knees turn liquid, folding his feet under him so easily it scares him. It scares him because sex is control, always has been, but here he is at the Grandmaster's feet and enjoying every second of it. 

_Careful,_ says some part of his brain, the clearly more rational part. _Or you'll forget yourself._

Loki wonders how many other, more powerful beings landed on Sakaar before him, drawn to the Grandmaster like moths to a sickly-sweet flame, the kind of heat you could get drunk and lazy and stupid on. How many beings like him were undone by the Grandmaster's hand, once-cunning and ambitious, now slaves to sex and ancient magic. 

The Grandmaster's hand twists not-so-gently in Loki’s hair, the jeweled ring on his little finger scraping Loki’s scalp. Loki hazards a look up to find the Grandmaster staring, eyes huge and hungry, and thinks, _Yes, I can do this._

He would swallow the Grandmaster whole, all under the illusion he had Loki right where he wanted him. And Loki would enjoy every second of it. 

"Would you," the Grandmaster says, nudging Loki’s head forward, fingers cradling the base of Loki’s skull just this side of painful. It feels good, grounding, so Loki moves easily, lets the Grandmaster guide him to press his cheek against his thigh and hold him there. 

Ah, Loki realizes. Reverence is what he wants. 

Taking a chance, Loki ghosts a hand up the back of the Grandmaster's leg. The Grandmaster doesn't indicate for Loki to stop, so he stops halfway, curling his fingers around the back of the Grandmaster's knee, pulling himself closer so he leans against the strange old being in earnest. 

"Grandmaster," Loki sighs against his thigh, and hears a low, strange laugh somewhere above him. 

"You flatter me," the Grandmaster jokes, but there's some undertone there, a thread of danger. It excites Loki more than it should. "Tell me, ah, do you gag easily?"

The next few moments seem to happen both too fast and too slow, like Loki is watching it all happen underwater but can't figure out how the Grandmaster got his pants down already, how the hand on the back of Loki’s head is already nudging him forward. Loki opens his mouth on instinct, hears a very distant "good, very good," and suddenly is swallowing down the Grandmaster's cock with very little ceremony. 

"Just relax," the Grandmaster says. "Don’t wanna break you on the first go, you know?"

So when did he expect Loki to crack? The second? The fifth? 

Loki doesn't get much of a spare moment to ponder that; the hand in his hair tips him back and for one wild second Loki realizes the Grandmaster wants him to swallow till he chokes – _do you gag easily?_

There wasn't going back on this. Loki either has to accommodate or the seduction would fail. He relaxes his jaw and lets the Grandmaster jerk him closer, sliding easily past Loki’s tongue, into the top of his throat, and then – and then. 

Loki swallows. The Grandmaster's cock goes down deep, and even though Loki is as relaxed as he can be, the panic of choking sets in. He breathes hard through his nose, tries to focus on the Grandmaster's huff of pleased surprise, the fist in his hair. 

"Perfect – just, just perfect," the Grandmaster says, and – slides his other hand to Loki’s windpipe, feels the swell there in a gesture that should have felt more humiliating than it was. "You take it like a champ!"

Oh, Norns. Loki could feel tears pricking his eyes, and there was a knot low in his stomach that wasn't there before. Distantly he is aware of the Grandmaster moving, fucking his throat in short, careful strokes, like Loki is a prize object, an expensive teacup to not shatter, and in spite of himself Loki lets out a shaky moan. 

The Grandmaster _likes_ him. His free hand is all over Loki’s face, touching his cheek, his eyelids, his jaw, tracing the curvature of bones, murmuring _lovely, just gorgeous_ in a cloying tone even as he sets to work ruining him. Loki should feel upset that the muscles of his jaw are aching or that he's starting to drool (embarrassing) but the Grandmaster is – unexpectedly nice to him, fingernails scraping the nape of his neck gently, assisting the angle so each thrust went down easier than the last. 

The ministrations are bizarrely businesslike. the Grandmaster is obviously enjoying himself – Loki can feel the edge of something harder in the buck of his hips, like he's restraining himself from actually harming Loki, but it shows in the huffs of breath through his nose, the hitch of his voice as he commends Loki on how well he takes it, how good he looks like this, and in turn it makes Loki wetter. He presses a palm between his legs and shifts his hips slightly, begging himself for just enough friction that he doesn't do something uncouth, like grind on the Grandmaster's leg. 

"Oh, dear," the Grandmaster says, suddenly, and Loki’s eyes shoot open to meet his. "Have I been neglecting you?"

Loki, dumbfounded and with more than a full mouth, doesn't say much, but he does get out a muffled "uh," before the Grandmaster pulls him off with a gasp and a long, obscene string of saliva following his lips. 

"I have – so much more planned for you, gorgeous. Why don't you get up here?"

Loki does, letting the Grandmaster manhandle him into a slow, languid kiss. He tastes shockingly sweet, dangerously so, and when his tongue catches on Loki’s teeth he can't help but shudder. The Grandmaster maneuvers the both of them around, steering Loki back until he falls on the bed, the Grandmaster right after him. 

Loki feels a hand fluttering at the waistband of his pants, and shivers. 

"If you don't mind me asking," the Grandmaster says, "what exactly am I going to be working with here?"

What a question. 

"Why," Loki says, guarded. "Is there a correct answer?"

"Oh, no, no, of course not!" the Grandmaster laughs. Loki doesn't need to look down to know that the Grandmaster's index finger is creeping lower. "I’ve seen _everything _, Loki, you think I’ve been alive as long as I’ve been and don't have a – an open mind? I just, uh, like to know what techniques I should be employing here."__

 _Techniques._ Loki has to suppress a laugh. But the Grandmaster's eyes were bright and liquid once again, strangely honest.

He could be honest, too.

"It changes, based on what I feel like, but –" Loki glances around. The Grandmaster's attention is still on him. "I’m – very wet right now," he finishes, lamely, hoping the Grandmaster would understand without having to resort to crude language.

The Grandmaster lights up, his hand dropping lower under Loki’s waistband, fingers collecting the wetness there. He rubs circles where Loki’s pelvis meets his thigh.

"Wonderful," the Grandmaster says, and means it. "Let me taste?"

Too dazed to form a sentence, Loki nods, and before he can think further the Grandmaster hooks his thumbs around Loki’s pants and pulls them down, leaning forward.

Loki can't bear to look but he can _feel_ the Grandmaster's tongue probing and tasting, collecting the wetness dripping out of him like it was honey. He feels his thighs being nudged apart, one hand wrapping around his left leg to hook it over the Grandmaster's shoulder, and he obliges easily, head swimming.

The Grandmaster pulls back slightly and Loki whines, hips quivering, until he lurches back forward and _licks_ , the flat of his tongue running the length of Loki’s folds, pressing just hard enough to make Loki hiss "oh, _hell_ " and bury a hand in the Grandmaster's silvery hair. He does this a couple more times, winking the whole way, gripping Loki’s leg harder as his thighs shook and his hips bucked, punctuating it with a light suck on his clit.

The Grandmaster hums. Loki feels half-mortified at how wet he is already. His heartbeat pounds between his legs.

"So pretty like this," the Grandmaster says, pulling off. "I could do this to you all day."

"I fear – you'll wring me dry if you do," Loki pants. He’s close, _so_ close but the Grandmaster keeps pulling back whenever Loki begins to sound desperate: _I collect moments...I could just bottle that up and sell it._

__

"You’ll have to forgive me, Loki, darling," the Grandmaster says, not an ounce of apology in his tone, "I just can't help myself, you know?"

__

"Hhh," is all Loki says, because the Grandmaster has returned to his ministrations, more calculating now with his tongue and teeth, and – oh, the addition of fingers, thrusting into Loki in short, blunt strokes that make his toes curl.

__

"Look at that," the Grandmaster observes, as if commenting on the weather and not the fact that he just sank two fingers knuckle-deep into Loki. "You just – opened up, just like that. Lovely!"

__

It’s relentless, the sensory overload of the Grandmaster's attentions, the nails of his free hand digging into Loki’s hip. He would tell the Grandmaster _more, go faster_ but he fears it would just come out as word salad, totally undignified, so he tugs harder at the Grandmaster's hair, hoping to agitate him, get him to _speed up_ because –

__

"'M close," Loki babbles, his heel rubbing frantically across the Grandmaster's shoulder blade. Distantly it occurs to him that the Grandmaster is far more composed than he is. Whatever happened to reducing the Grandmaster to a wreck?

__

"You can come, it's alright," the Grandmaster says, so casually it makes Loki want to scream. "Here, I’ll even – help you along."

__

His strokes get punishing, burying deep to the knuckle on each thrust, and he gets his mouth on Loki’s clit and sucks, hard, toying with it with his teeth. Loki’s thighs spasm and he tries to keep his mouth shut, keep the little dignity he has left – and then the Grandmaster's fingers double back, scraping hard against the spot that makes Loki see stars and he comes, shuddering as each aftershock hits him hard.

__

"You – bastard," Loki wheezes, and the Grandmaster only hums a chuckle as lances his tongue deep inside one last time. He can feel his inner walls spasm and his oversensitivity makes the Grandmaster's tongue edge on the side of painful but he doesn't push him away.

__

Stupid. So, so stupid. How did the Grandmaster do this to him?

__

Loki considered the tacky, gilded ceiling. The Grandmaster hadn't come yet, had he?

__

"Want you inside me," Loki says, which makes the Grandmaster pause.

__

"You’re a demanding little thing, aren't you?"

__

Loki props himself up by his elbows to look at the Grandmaster. The latter's perfectly-groomed eyebrow is raised, as if affronted that Loki would demand anything from him. But Loki can see his eyes, and he knows greed when he sees it.

__

"Oh, I don't know," Loki replies, and he knows anyone else would get melted for his flippancy. "I like to see it as generosity, seeing as how you insisted on making me come just with you wrist-deep in my cunt?"

__

He punctuates the last word with a pop of the T. The Grandmaster's other eyebrow shoots up to join the first one in badly-concealed surprise. He laughs that same startled, twinkling shattered-glass laugh from before.

__

"You got quite a mouth on you, huh," he says, but Loki’s words had their desired effect, and he can feel the slide of shimmering fabric as the Grandmaster inches upward, meeting Loki face-to-face. The makeup around his mouth is smeared, the rest of it left on the insides of Loki’s thighs. "Know what I think would, ah, suit you? A gag. Real pretty one – blue, you think?"

__

"I think you're stalling, Grandmaster," Loki says, the edges of his mouth curling up. He can feel the Grandmaster hard against his thigh, and despite his soreness and oversensitivity he was getting slick at the anticipation. "Isn’t this what you've been waiting for? Isn’t this why you've been chasing me for days? Why do you hesitate now?"

__

"Oh, _Loki_ ," the Grandmaster says, almost fondly. His fingers toy at Loki’s hood, noncommittal. "Don’t mistake anything I do as – hesitation. After all, you asked so _nicely_."

__

The kiss he pulls Loki into is humiliating, shoving his tongue into Loki’s mouth in a mockery of penetration, with too much spit. Loki recognizes the taste of himself on the Grandmaster and groans as he feels one finger, then two inside of him, scissoring harshly.

__

"I think rough's a pretty good pace this time, don't you?" the Grandmaster conversationalizes. Then the third finger, making Loki arch his back and groan in frustration. He was already open; the Grandmaster is taunting him at this point.

__

The Grandmaster pulls out and wipes his hand on Loki’s thigh, ignoring the face Loki makes. He divests himself of the golden robe and his tunic and kneels over Loki, a lean expanse of brown skin and blue makeup, like some kind of painted idol.

__

_"So_ sorry to keep you waiting, dollface," he says, and Loki doesn't need to look down to know the Grandmaster is sliding into him, thumb holding him open to accommodate. Just as Loki suspected his fingers are a shadow of his cock, thick and almost unbearably hot. The Grandmaster just keeps _going_ past when Loki reasonably thought he would stop and it's exquisite, the feeling of _fullness_ , of the Grandmaster buried so deep in him their hips knock together.

__

"Oh," Loki breathes, and shifts slightly, trying to seat the Grandmaster deeper in him. "This–"

__

"I like this, yeah," the Grandmaster finishes, his hands stroking up and down Loki’s hips, with just a hint of nails. "So _tight._ Tell me: are – are all Asgardians this good of a fuck?"

__

Loki’s mouth shuts tight, his eyebrows knitting together. "You mean you never tried – _her?"_

__

__Now it was the Grandmaster's turn to be confused. " _Her?_ You – eh, you mean _Scrapper-142?"_ His laugh this time is genuine, deceptively warm. No sharp edges of glass. "Have you ever seen her give a, ah, lusty glance to anything that wasn't a bottle or a woman?"__

_____ _

"I...suppose not." So he hadn't even bothered. Either he was respecting her preferences (odd, for such a flighty old creature) or she hadn't even been of interest in the first place. No, instead he'd zeroed in on Loki, presumably on the lovely shattered-teacup front he could put up when intimidation or flattery were no longer options.

_____ _

"Oh, what am I saying?" The Grandmaster smiles again, pearly white teeth like a beast of prey, and Loki’s stomach lurches strangely. "Here I am with your gorgeous self and I’m blathering about – about _Scrapper-142?_ What a buzzkill. Spread your legs for me, sweetheart?"

_____ _

Loki obeys easily, lets the Grandmaster arrange his legs high and wide, heels almost at the backs of his thighs. As the Grandmaster moves he changes position in Loki just a little, just slightly, but enough to make Loki whine impatiently. He found himself enjoying this immensely, more than expected, but damn him if he would only _move._

_____ _

"What was I saying about 'rough'? Oh, yeah," the Grandmaster says, and without warning pulls almost entirely out before slamming back in again, punching a gasp out of Loki’s chest. He does this a couple more times, hard enough that the bed complains, fingernails digging hard into Loki’s thighs. The Grandmaster leans in almost claustrophobically close, and his skin is heady with the scent of old magic and perfumes.

_____ _

Loki doesn't need to touch himself to know he's already filthy, silky-slick to the point where the Grandmaster practically glides into him with no resistance, dripping onto the bed. It feels _good_ ; he can't remember the last time anyone fucked him like this and he can't bring himself to care about the Grandmaster's bruising grip on the backs of his thighs, or when he brings one hand under Loki’s arched back and pulls him close, fucking into him deeper.

_____ _

"Grandmaster," Loki breathes, echoing the first time he said it, at the Grandmaster's feet. Some small part of him at the back of his mind, the part still with some semblance of control, worries at his own earnesty.

_____ _

The Grandmaster is almost just as lost but doesn't look it: it's only evident in the shudder of his chest, the huge, hungry eyes, as if he hasn't eaten in millennia. Clumsy blue-lacquered fingers find their way to Loki’s clit and rub at it mercilessly, hard and rough to the time of his thrusts. Loki makes a slurred noise that he doesn't recognize as himself, rolls his hips to meet the Grandmaster's cock and his fingers.

_____ _

"Be honest, gorgeous," the Grandmaster says, low and hot against the shell of Loki’s ear. "How long's it been since someone's touched you like this?"

_____ _

"D-don't know," Loki manages to grit out. This position put him at a disadvantage, and every thrust puts him a little more out of his skull, but damn the stars he had to _try_ to gain the upper hand. He moves, hard, against the Grandmaster's hand keeping his knees apart, hooks one leg around the Grandmaster's middle, and flips the two of them over, still with the Grandmaster buried deep inside him.

_____ _

The Grandmaster grunts as he unceremoniously hits the bed, eyes wide, mouth a little circle. Loki runs his hands up his bare chest, thumbs rubbing at his nipples, and the Grandmaster sighs.

_____ _

"What's with the, uh, sudden burst of inspiration?" The Grandmaster asks. His eyes don't contain any anger – Loki was safe.

_____ _

Loki smirks, encouraged. The Grandmaster is moving his hips minimally, trying to get purchase, and Loki acquiesces, rolling his hips oh-so-slightly. "Just thought a change of pace would be nice." Then, newly emboldened, says, "Touch me again."

_____ _

The Grandmaster must be in a good mood because he easily slips a hand between them and finds Loki’s clit again, rolls it gently between two fingers, not too fast, and Loki hums. He rides the Grandmaster like that, hands roaming up and down his chest, gasping a little when the latter's hips jump and drive just a little deeper or he rubs Loki just a little too roughly. The slow tease is working; the Grandmaster leans in and takes Loki’s lower lip between his teeth, sucking on it.

_____ _

He lets the Grandmaster kiss him wet and slick, bodies moving together in tandem.

_____ _

"What do I have to do to get you to – to move faster?"

_____ _

Bingo.

_____ _

Loki pretends to look conflicted, hooking his fingers into the Grandmaster's hair and rumpling it. "Promise to give me anything." A beat. "Make me your favorite."

_____ _

"Oh, beautiful," the Grandmaster says, "If you weren't my favorite I wouldn't have let you have me on my back. But it's a deal."

_____ _

He had him. For once, he had him. Loki smiles, all too serene, and speeds up his pace, bracing his palms on the bed, fucking the Grandmaster back into him hard and deep. The Grandmaster responds, presses two fingers hard against Loki’s clit and just – _goes_ , matching Loki’s pace.

_____ _

He lets himself enjoy it – really enjoy it this time, clenching hard with each grind. The Grandmaster is breathing hard, hair and makeup wrecked – Loki leans in to lick the last of the waxy gloss off the Grandmaster's chin. They’re moving hard and fast, with enough momentum that the Grandmaster's headboard is smacking the wall.

_____ _

"Well, I’m – definitely about to –" the Grandmaster says, and chokes off a low groan as Loki clenches down around him. He didn't need to know the rest of it – he could feel the Grandmaster tensing inside of him.

_____ _

The Grandmaster gasps and shoots hard into Loki, one hand in a vicegrip on his hip, keeps going till he's done and Loki is full and dripping. Loki covers the Grandmaster's fingers on his clit with his own, moves them hard and fast over himself till he's coming close behind, pulsing around the Grandmaster's cock, hissing affirmations into the Grandmaster's neck.

_____ _

Loki rides out his aftershocks on the Grandmaster's hand and cock until it hurts, pulling himself off and looping his arms around the Grandmaster's neck. The Grandmaster kisses him, bruising and slow, wraps his arms around Loki’s waist, and lets the two of them just stay there, wet and glowing, locked together.

_____ _

The Grandmaster’s hand slips between Loki’s legs. "That was a bit much, huh," the Grandmaster says, hazarding a glance down. "Oh, you're leaking."

_____ _

"You’ve got enough come to impregnate a horse," Loki drawls. The Grandmaster laughs helplessly, slapping Loki’s knee. "No, really."

_____ _

"You really are funny," the Grandmaster chuckles, crawling down Loki’s body and eating him out again, cleaning him out with clever little movements of the tongue that make Loki stretch like a cat, resting his arms under his head. "And a good fuck, to boot. I’ll let you in on a secret: you were my favorite from the moment I laid eyes on you. So much to unpeel! Like, uh, when were you gonna tell me how sexy you think I am?"

_____ _

Loki freezes, pushing the Grandmaster away from him. He licks his lips at Loki, unperturbed.

_____ _

"What do you mean," Loki says, eyes narrowed.

_____ _

"Come on, don't take me for an idiot," the Grandmaster says, then throws back his head, moaning theatrically: _“Yours, Grandmaster!”_

_____ _

“You tap your chambers?”

_____ _

The Grandmaster laughs. His voice rumbles low in his chest. “Goodness, no. You’re just louder than you think.”

_____ _

Loki squints at him.

_____ _

“And – I may have been listening at the door. You’re _very_ hot when you get all bothered like that.”

_____ _

Frustrated, Loki smacks the Grandmaster’s chest with the heel of his hand. “Quite frankly, I should be a very different shade of bothered with you right now. You’re lucky that was a good lay.”

_____ _

“Does that mean you’ll invite me to watch next time?”

_____ _

“Don’t push your luck, Grandmaster.”

_____ _

“Hnn, fair enough,” the Grandmaster hums, rolling Loki over so he was pinned. “Last question: when are you gonna drop the glamor?”

_____ _

The smile drops straight off Loki’s face. His whole body goes cold.

_____ _

"You think I can't detect magic? Your skin is far too cold for an Asgardian’s." A long, loaded silence follows. "I’m not gonna, like, force it off you; that'd just be – cheating. Just…I’d like to know what I’m taking to bed.”

_____ _

His hands cover Loki’s, pushed flat against his chest. His touch feels impossibly warm, and Loki fears he'll drop the glamor right there. Just like breathing – once you're reminded you're doing it, you can't do it naturally anymore. Maybe the Grandmaster wouldn't find him monstrous, but to be treated like an exotic wasn't the most appealing concept either.

_____ _

"I," Loki starts. The Grandmaster’s eyes search his face. He turns it to the side. “Jotun,” he says, finally.

_____ _

“Ah,” the Grandmaster lays back down, legs tangling together. “From – Yo-Yo-Land, right? You’re a bit—“

_____ _

“Small for a Jotun,” Loki finishes. “So they tell me.” He could feel himself wearing out already. The Grandmaster’s touch feels scalding.

_____ _

“Is this bothering you?”

_____ _

“You want the truth? Quite a bit.”

_____ _

“That’s too bad,” The Grandmaster says. Loki can tell from the tone of his voice he doesn’t understand why. “Would you show me sometime?”

_____ _

If it were anyone else asking, Loki might’ve slapped them. Unfortunately, he had to go and get attached, against his better judgment, to an eons-old god-creature who only barely grasped the concept of emotions.

_____ _

Really, they were perfect for each other.

_____ _

"Yes, I suppose," he yawns, finally. "Eventually."

_____ _

The Grandmaster smiles. The just too-sharp glint of his teeth is back.

_____ _

“I’ll hold you to that.”

_____ _

**Author's Note:**

> *loki voice* i have been writing this fic......FOR THREE MONTHS.
> 
> no, really. i haven't been able to stop thinking about these two for months, and that's even after star wars. STAR WARS. i have been totally enraptured by sparkly jeff goldblum. he is the puppetmaster who cursed my dick. i originally set out to write porn and ended up with 7k of this shit, so...enjoy?
> 
> [vega intl. night school is my soundtrack for frostmaster](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=vUGtLwFsQKg&list=PL-1EhcHflWoMIHEGINmDYvSAiRA5KSe8V) btw -- "the glitzy hive" is what i named this fic after. give it a listen if you also like dirty glittery 80s-inspired synthpop.
> 
> comments are always appreciated!
> 
> EDIT: if you liked this fic, go read [fox on the run](https://archiveofourown.org/works/12714930) by CampySpaceSlime; the grandmaster's ideology of "collecting moments" is very similarly explored there -- and also, they did it first!


End file.
